La Liberté d'Amélie Lacroix
by Overwatcher
Summary: One take on the origins of the Widowmaker. The roads we take to freedom often cost us much, and cost some more than others. For Amélie Lacroix, the cost was extreme. Rated M for graphic sexuality, language, and violence. This story focuses on the characters and events that lead Amélie Lacroix to ascend to her freedom as the Widowmaker.
1. Prologue

As many do, Gérard and Amélie met on the job. She was an analyst, a specialist who had a quick mind for tactics, and who knew how to take her information and get to the most practical application. And Gérard was an expert operative, who valued the intel and Amélie's quick analyses greatly. What started as a simple briefing, where Amélie's confidence about her intel struck Gérard, turned into her sitting in on almost every briefing he had. His effectiveness against Talon was only amplified by her, and eventually, she became his dispatcher. Together the two were unstoppable; Talon stood no chance.

Amélie was young and naïve, and had never been a particularly emotional woman. But something about Gérard made her feel warm, and made her feel happy. So when he proposed to her one night when they were eating drinking after a successful field op, she could only say 'yes.' But even then, there was an uncertainty there. Even when they made love on their wedding night, Amélie's mind was preoccupied with the question of her own love for Gérard, and her own attraction to him. Time passed, and these doubts began to settle, until Amélie had all but convinced herself that she was leading the happiest life she could have wanted.

And that is where we pick up our story.

* * *

><p>The night was unseasonably warm in Paris. The air conditioner whirred in the window - set up hastily some days before when the temperatures had started to climb. But even with its cool jet of air, it still felt as though the sweat dripped from every pore.<p>

Blankets had been forsaken by the couple, and Gérard, at least, was sound asleep. But for Amélie, this was another sleepless night. Sweat clung her thin clothing to her body, which chaffed and itched more than it should have, but no amount of squirming or scratching could alleviate it. Couple that with restless thoughts and the on-again-off-again snoring of her lover, and she was left to watch the billowing orange glow of the curtain as it caught itself again and again in the airflow from the whirring machine in the window, only to fall out, dangling back to where it had started. It was futility, and it was trapped.

And for a moment, she sympathized.

The thought itself caught her off guard. How could she be sympathizing with a curtain? And yet as she watched it try again to free itself from its place beside the window by the currents of the chilled air, she wanted it to be free. And once again, it buckled, returning to its place.

Always beside the window. Always trapped.

Amélie frowned, beginning to prop herself up on her forearm. Why shouldn't it be free? Legs shifted over the side of the bed, and she finally gave up on trying to sleep. Gérard turned on his side, but continued to snore, and a smile slipped onto her lips. Good, she hadn't woken him. If she was quiet, she still wouldn't.

Her lithe form had been something she'd always hated - she felt too tall, and like it made her stand out. But if it was proving a benefit now, and she was able to begin silently unhooking the curtain from its fastenings. Part of her longed to take the fabric and tear it odd to throw flailing across the quiet room. Its freedom deserved as much effort.

The curtain freed, she gave it a smile before letting it drop quietly to the floor, and letting her eyes scan over the streets and alleys that were in eyesight of the apartment. Here a man was taking out the trash behind his restaurant, looking satisfied with his earnings for the night, but still displeased by the trip to the dumpster through the heat of the night.

Her eyes flicked to the right, and she saw a couple having an argument as they walked down the street. From here she could read what their lips were saying - something having to do with the man having gotten a little too friendly with her friends. Accusations flew, words were misinterpreted, but the tension soon found its conclusion. Amélie pouted - she'd been hoping for a little bit more entertainment, but the couple sauntered awkwardly away, the man following several steps behind and looking as though he'd been properly called out.

The watching woman turned her gaze back to the man in her bed, wondering if he'd ever do anything like that to her. Wondering if he would break her heart. And wondering how she would react. Thoughts very quickly turned dark, and she pinched her eyes shut to chase them away. 'No, Amélie,' she told herself, 'we can't have any of that.'

Once again, she turned to the city for entertainment, trying to find something to help her pass the night. And there it was. A young woman wearing far too little to have been anywhere but a club, rounded a corner into view. She stumbled, barely managing to catch herself, and betraying her intoxication. 'At least she has the sense not to drive,' the woman thought, looking on as the younger began trying to walk again.

But only a moment later, and a group of four men rounded the corner. Their gaze was on the woman, and they were slowly closing the distance. She could see their intent from the look in their eyes, what words she could make out from their lips, and the bulges in their trousers. Gazing again to the girl, it was clear what her fate could be. And given how at least one of the men had a knife in his pocket that she could see, it was time to act.

"Gérard," she called the man's name, keeping her gaze fixed on the woman, memorizing her position, and her route.

"What is it, love?" He asked moments later, his voice still groggy from sleep.

"Get up and put your suit on," she said, "you get to go be a hero."

With something of a groan, the man pushed himself up and began to dress. Amélie hadn't even looked his way. Only after he'd left the room did she stoop to retrieve the curtain, beginning to put it back. It would not be free this night, after all.


	2. Chapter 1

"Amélie, I'd like you to meet Dr. Angela Ziegler."

The voice speaking belonged to Dr. Samuel Regis, chief of medical operations in Overwatch. Amélie and Gérard had been assigned as part of the security detail at a science and medical convention in Geneva. Dr. Regis had asked for their supervision personally, as with so many brilliant and forward-thinking minds in attendance, the threat from Talon was bordering on absurd. Amélie had been rapt in her thoughts on the precautions they still needed to take, following silently behind Gérard the doctor. Only when he'd interrupted her did Amélie look up, seeming somewhat lost.

"Oh, surely one so preoccupied doesn't need to be interrupted with MY introduction," Ziegler replied, and Amélie could only smirk as she noticed the subtle playfulness to her smile, which betrayed her love of the attention. Her white-blonde hair was wrapped behind her head, a few loose strands fluttering down her face in their gentle curls. Blue eyes struck at Amélie, and she allowed herself to examine the woman in her cool, dark blue business suit, lined with the faintest of pink accents. It fit her well, and while demonstrating the gentle curves of her body, did not draw undue attention to them. The skirt cut off at the knees, revealing her legs, which Amélie flicked her eyes away from after the shortest of moments spent admiring them. A notepad in her arms was scribbled into, before the stylus was stowed and the device turned off.

"You give yourself far too little credit, Dr. Ziegler," Amélie responded with a smile of her own, "we've been advised by your superiors that you could pose the largest challenge from an asset that we've had to face." A faint curl at the edge of her lips betrayed her own mischievous intent.

"'Largest challenge?!'" Angela scoffed. "They WOULD say something like that, wouldn't they?" Turning to Dr. Regis, the doctor continued. "Is that why they keep trying to talk me up to you, Sam?"

"Your work speaks for itself, my dear," the elder doctor replied with a smile, before returning to Amélie, who was fighting the temptation to return to her planning, "I've been trying to get Angela to join our ranks for years now. She'd be able to do a lot of good, if she'd be willing to help us out."

"Nevertheless, I do hope you'll let my husband and I do our jobs to protect you, Dr. Ziegler," Amélie's smile cut through the jovial tones of the conversation, and brought it back to matters at hand. Both of the doctors' smiles disappeared. "We're here to protect you, but we'll need your cooperation to do that." They'd heard directly from Dr. Ziegler's superiors that she was something of a loose cannon, and that she was hard to control. In a situation like this, that could prove disastrous - and Amélie had sized her up in a minute.

"Amélie, is it?" Angela asked, smiling flatly, "I don't know what my superiors may have told you, but I can assure you that I won't need protecting. I'm a big girl—I can handle myself." Amélie, releasing her smile, took a moment to study the young doctor's form, her posture, the way her nostrils seemed to flare with her breathing to show her angst, and the way she tensed up her shoulders to show the insecurity she was desperately trying to hide.

"Dr. Ziegler," she began, shifting her posture slightly and assuming a well-practiced form and tone, "I have not done much in the way of studying your past, but I can tell that you come from both privilege and hardship. You're young. Arrogant. You've made a name for yourself, and so you think you're untouchable. And this hides your past. People said you couldn't—you proved them wrong. People told you 'no,' and you were driven to spite them. Everything you have ever done has been to prove that you are better than the world thinks you are.

"But you're not. You may be clever, and you may be quick-witted, but you are no better than the rest. You eat like the rest. You breathe like the rest. You shit like the rest. And you can die like the rest. At the end of the day, you're just as vulnerable as anybody else. The deaths you have spent your life trying to reverse are permanent - you cannot bring a single person back. No parents. No siblings. No friends. No lovers. Death is final, and it is our job to protect you from it while you are here.

"So please, Dr. Ziegler, unless you wish to join those you lost, let us do our job." Amélie's cold stare into Angela's eyes was unforgiving, and she could tell that she'd struck a nerve. But with assets as chaotic as Angela, she knew she often needed to. Tears had begun welling up, and the shock and hurt from what had been said stung as it began to sink in.

"Lacroix!" Dr. Regis' face betrayed his fury, but he clearly didn't understand what was at stake, and she turned her gaze to him, revealing the regret of the few assets they'd lost before taking that sort of approach - and he backed down.

"Very well," she replied, the waver in her voice betraying her upset, "I will cooperate." Angela then turned to the other in their company, and managed a smile. "If you'll excuse me, then, Sam, I must freshen up a bit. I believe there's a briefing Mrs. Lacroix has scheduled for myself and the other speakers this evening, and I have yet to unpack."

"Well, I suppose I can't argue with that," Dr. Regis replied, trying to bring back some of the warmth the conversation had had before Amélie chimed in with her abrasive reply. "I suppose you can join me and my wife for dinner after? There's a restaurant in town that serves an excellent canard dish."

"I think I'd like that," she said with a smile, but it didn't bear any of the warmth she'd had formerly, and she let the smile fade some before looking back to Amélie, "but for now, I must be going. Good afternoon, Dr., Mrs. Lacroix." And with that, she turned about, high heels clacking against the pavement as she retreated into the venue, likely to her suite, leaving Amélie and Dr. Regis alone.

"Was that really necessary, Lacroix?" the doctor asked, turning to his counterpart, looking concerned. But Amélie didn't return his look, and her eyes followed the woman as she disappeared behind the glass doors.

"It was for her own good, Regis," she said simply, "I just hope I got through to her."

* * *

><p>The rest of the afternoon went as peacefully as could be expected for Amélie. Arrangements fell into place, agents were double- and triple-assigned to their details about the premises. Overwatch had eyes and ears everywhere, both stationary and on the assets themselves. But through it all, Amélie was distracted. There was something in how Dr. Ziegler had retreated, in how she'd readily said she would cooperate that gave her cause to worry.<p>

Though it wasn't really as though they could do anything about it. There were already guards outside of every door, the balconies were secured, and Dr. Ziegler would receive the same escort privilege to and from the venues that every other speaker, and every other asset received.

Angela Ziegler could make their lives a lot harder if she wanted, but she was not the first difficult asset they had to deal with, and nor would she be the last.

Amélie sat in the operations van, staring at the blueprints that were marked up on monitors before her over and over, studying positions and routes that she'd long since memorized. Her mind wandered, and she tried to pick apart how Talon might try to interfere.

At least until a pair of strong hands met her shoulders, beginning to rub. Thumbs pressed hard into the muscles of her back, and she leaned into the familiar motions.

"You're tense, love," Gérard said, leaning forward and positioning his head over hers as he continued to massage her shoulders, studying the blueprints and seeing completely different details than she. Considering he was the chief field operative for this detail, and considering he always worked in the field, she'd come to accept this difference in perspective—and appreciate it.

"It's nothing," she said dismissively, "just anxious for this weekend to be over so we can get back to Paris." His hands continued, finding a pair of knots towards the base of her neck and attempting to rub them out. Amélie's lips parted and her brow furrowed as he pushed harder, but soon the relief began, and she couldn't help but smile.

"It's more than that," his hands began to focus on her neck and the thin muscles at its back, "I just heard from Dr. Regis."

"That bad?" She asked, her head bobbing as he rubbed.

"He described it as a 'verbal bitchslap out of nowhere.'"

"Gérard, she's a rogue, she'd get herself killed by trying to escape our detail-"

"And so you wanted to head her off?" The massage stopped, and he turned her chair, squatting down to her level to look her in the eye. His brown hair and big, blue eyes gave her the look that meant he was trying to feel her out, and Amélie betrayed her feelings with a sigh.

"It's the only way I've known to be effective with people like her," she finally replied. "Once…they know that we won't accommodate any stupidity on their part, and that we are willing to hurt them if it means saving them, they usually comply."

Gérard nodded, and Amélie knew it was sincere. He agreed whole-heartedly with what she was saying. He'd been the one to teach her how to do that. But she could sense the rebuttal hanging in his expression, and in his posture. Her smile vanished, and her distaste for what he was about to say became apparent before he could even say it.

"Regis went to the Director. The Director came to me." Gérard knew his words could not be well-received, and the way he spoke reflected that much. Amélie scowled.

"So what does he want me to do?" She asked, "I'm not sorry for what I did or said. I'd say it again in a heartbeat, if I had to!"

"I know you would, and I'm not arguing with you! But the Director won't be satisfied until he hears from Dr. Ziegler that you apologized."

A moment of silence passed between the couple, as Amélie simply stared at her husband in disbelief.

"Apologize? When I'm not sorry?"

"I know, love, but-"

"That's ridiculous! She needed to hear what I had to say!"

"She was an orphan, Amélie! Her parents died in the old war!" Gérard's voice began to rise, and he stood.

"I don't give two shits about her parents if it means saving her life!" And Amélie stood as well, the fire in her voice reflecting in her eyes as she stared her husband down. And he let out a sigh, trying not to let his own displeasure with the situation color his position, or his statements.

"Please, Amélie," he said finally, his expression softening, "just…go talk to her. Be nice. Apologize for upsetting her, if you think it's appropriate, but please, just go try to make amends." And the woman finally let the fire in her eyes dissipate some. Inhaling long and letting it out, she turned and returned to her seat, beginning to stack up some of her papers.

"Why is she so special, anyway?" she finally replied, tucking the stack into her satchel to be sorted and stapled later.

"The Director wants her for a new initiative," Gérard replied, "something about elite field and combat operations. He said she's fishing for reasons not to join, and we just gave her a big one." And at that, Amélie knew she'd lost the discussion. If the director wanted her on board, she needed to be nice.

"Just think about it at least, alright?" Gérard said, rising. "I need to go have a final briefing with the mobile teams before we can open the doors. I love you." Leaning over, he planted a kiss on her cheek, before turning and leaving the van.

Amélie brought a hand up to feel where he'd kissed, and let out a sigh. There was no sense in delaying it, so she, too, rose and exited the van. The door locked, she began to make her way towards the hotel where their assets were staying. At least this way, she wouldn't have to worry about it anymore.

But really, she thought, what was there that she could even say?

* * *

><p>The briefing was three hours away. And yet, try as she might, Amélie could not quite rid her mind of the responsibility for what she'd said. Mostly, it was the pressure that was coming down straight from the director. The nameless force guiding their organisation had heard her name in connection to something that reflected poorly on Overwatch. She was the blemish. She hated that, but more than that, she felt as though she hadn't actually done anything wrong about it.<p>

It was as stressful as it was frustrating, and so as the elevator dinged and opened on the eleventh floor of the hotel, she let out an exhale. She'd managed to spruce herself up slightly. Her blouse has been buttoned and she'd fixed her hair - even found the jacket she never wore, and tried to quickly flatten some of the wrinkles in her skirt. Anything to make her look more genuine, right?

One long corridor led to another, led to a third, and Amélie final found herself at the right door. Despite protocol, none of the guards were chastised for failing to gain her security clearance. She wasn't in the mood to repeat the same sequence at every turn and any time she passed a patrol in the hallway, anyway. They'd get an informal warning later, if anything, she reasoned, before realizing something.

She was stalling.

It was true that apologies always made her uncomfortable, but the challenge here was in that the director had tasked her with breaking one of the cardinal rules of this type of assignment: never connect with the asset, because it will stop you from doing what needs to be done.

Or maybe that was the challenge she could focus on; instead of how to apologize for something that she hadn't done wrong, how to interact with the asset on a personal level without becoming attached.

A hand was raised, and Amélie rapt three times on the door.

"Dr. Ziegler?" She called after a few moments, but there was no answer. Three more knocks were left on the door, and they went unanswered. "Dr. Ziegler, it's Amélie Lacroix. Can I come in?" And even still, there was no answer. Part of it may have been the chatter in her earpiece, which had become background noise to her. Sentries and patrols communicating, calling clear zones, reporting on their own locations and the locations of others. Still, despite it being background noise, it WAS still noise, so she pulled the earpiece off her ear and tucked it in her jacket pocket.

Three more knocks. "Angela? Are you here?" A few more moments yielded silence, and for once she was glad that she was in charge of the security detail. From the same pocket where her earpiece had been, she withdrew her access card and slid it through the lock, waiting for the telltale green light and click before opening the door and stepping in.

"Dr. Ziegler, are you in? This is Amélie Lacroix. I've come to...apologize..." But there was still no answer, and she let the door shut behind her, moving further into the room. It was a generously-sized suite, more generous than she and Gérard had been given. For the briefest of moments, jealous and rage washed over her mind, but then an understanding dawned - it was ALL about sucking up to this woman; this doctor who had somehow earned the Director's focus and attention. He wanted her in the organization, and he wanted her VERY badly.

Amélie's tentative expression and demeanor grew into a flat smile, and she began to move more deeply into the suite, beginning to examine its contents. "Dr. Ziegler?" She tried once more, but so far there was nothing to suggest the good doctor was here right now. Sure, her bags were partially unpacked, and three events' worth of outfits were laid out on her bed, but with a bed to spare, that much made enough sense. The closets, she recalled, were surprisingly cumbersome.

Her searching gaze shifted from the bed to the armoire, which held a few knickknacks. A rag doll that fit with what she knew of the doctor's past was frayed at its edges, and bore some staining that even the best dry-cleaners would be hard pressed to remove. It sat against the mirror, along with an old printed photograph that had been inserted just into the frame. The color had long since bleached from the three figures, but enough remained on the folded, cracked parchment for her to see a middle aged man and woman, and a young girl, all beaming. They were dressed in their Sunday best, but Amélie knew the clothing had likely been rented. This was the last memento Dr. Ziegler had from before she'd become an orphan of war; these were her parents and the little blonde girl with pigtails was a very young Angela Ziegler.

There was a strange fondness in the smile that Amélie found as she regarded the photo, and how she was able to momentarily lose herself in the sentiment she imagined Angela feeling about it. She thought of how it must have been a very happy childhood, at least until the bombing that stole that happiness away. And like that, the smile was gone, and she let her eyes shut. No, don't attach. Don't get sentimental. Stay professional. Her elbows locked and she leaned onto the armoire. Breathe in, breathe out.

The woman turned her face to the mirror, and she looked into her own eyes, trying to find her own center again. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this insecure. 'Pull it together, Amélie,' she told herself, continuing to study the tired lines of her own face.

Uncounted moments passed, before the familiar, quiet click of a gun's safety being disabled brought her back to the present. Her eyes widened slightly, and she trained her gaze in the mirror on a much less composed Dr. Ziegler. The pistol was low caliber, but Angela clearly had experience in holding and firing it—even though her body trembled in the cool air of the hotel room, the gun stayed steady, and her eyes were locked on Amélie.

And that's when she saw the little girl in that photograph. The woman had tears streaming down her cheeks, her eyeliner and mascara having mixed in and traced a pair of dark lines on either side. Her blue eyes bore the pain that Amélie had imagined moments before, and that's when it struck her that she'd triggered as much, and her composure began to break. The cool demeanor shifted, edging through pity for the sad girl to apologetic. Angela, in turn, had gone from shock and fear towards an odd combination of fury and sorrow.

"I was too harsh," Amélie said quietly, suddenly knowing that her 'professional detachment' was no longer an option. She leaned back against the armoire, her brows knitting ever so slightly as she regarded the woman, "Dr. Ziegler, I-"

"You what?" The woman stepped forward, keeping her gun trained on the intruder. Her jaw was clenched, and the weapon was cradled in both hands as she took a stronger position.

"I'm sorry," she replied simply, "for…what I said. For upsetting you." And for the first time, Amélie forgot her mantra. A sigh let out, and she shut her eyes. She hated feeling vulnerable like this. Even with Gérard, she almost never let him see her emotional side. It was an embarrassment, or so her father had told her.

The safety clicked back on, and Amélie let her eyes open once more. Angela had lowered the gun, and set it on the bed, and it was only then that Amélie noticed her attire-a thin robe that clung to her, betraying the shower or bath she'd only just stepped out of. It left little to the imagination, and then she realized she'd been staring, even if only for a moment.

"Is that all, Mrs. Lacroix?" Angela asked, folding her arms in front of her, a new line of tears forming. "Are you really sorry, or did that nitwit Sam force you to come up here? Because I certainly don't have time for that."

"Angela, I-"

"'Dr. Ziegler,' please." Angela corrected, cutting Amélie off.

"Dr. Ziegler, then," she corrected herself, closing her eyes and taking a moment to regain her composure. "I DID speak too harshly. We've lost..." Her eyes had opened while she was speaking, but a nagging red light caught the corner of her eye, and she watched as the dot traced along the wall behind Angela before settling squarely on her forehead.

Instinct and training kicked in. At once, Amélie tore the sheet off the bed and thrust it upward with the clothing Angela had selected for herself to wear, and while it fluttered in the air, she closed the gap to her asset and tackled her to the floor on the far side of the bed. The sheet fluttered across the room as first one and then a second bullet dragged themselves through, having shattered the glass and doing a number on the wall. A firearm was produced from a holster on the small of her back - smaller caliber, but easier to conceal. And if the bullet hit the right place, Amélie remembered reasoning to herself, she wouldn't need anything more powerful.

A silent alarm had been tripped from the breaking of the window, and it would only be a few more moments before suits and guns burst through the door.

The sound of shattered glass grinding against itself beneath slow boot falls met her ears. It was muted some by the rush of wind from the newfound lack of window, but she could hear it just the same.

Below her, Dr. Ziegler seemed to be trying to keep herself calm, but with as close as they were, she could feel her heart beating out of her chest. Amélie looked down and saw the woman staring at something to the side - the handgun she'd held had been knocked out of reach.

"Hey," she mouthed, trying to get the doctor's attention, which seemed to work, as the woman turned, her blonde hair stuck to her face and neck with moisture. She looked confused, scared, and concerned. Amélie tipped her head slightly, before a slight smirk crossed her lips. "I have a plan," she said, though the plan did involve the first two suits through the door being killed by their assailant. That made her scowl, but it was the only way they'd get out of there alive. It was their job to protect this woman, and they knew full well that it might happen. An unfortunate reality of their line of work.

And then the moment came, the door burst open, and she took position on the bed. Amélie watched as the large gunman, clothed in black and an ominous mask, effortlessly centered his pistol on the head of the first and pulled his trigger. He was dead before he could even call for backup. Teeth were bared, and she took her own aim just as the second shot was fired, killing the other guard who'd come in. They'd bought her mere moments, but she put them to use, and the first bullet hit the assassin right in his face. Only, it ricocheted into the ceiling, having broken his mask and little more. Eyes widened, and she squeezed the trigger again, and yet again.

But then the assailant did something she was not expecting. Smoke began to pour from his suit, obscuring her vision as he retreated. She leapt to her feet and ran to the shattered window, loosing two more bullets in his direction. Neither landed, and she swore, before putting the gun back in its holster.

"These men are hurt," Angela said, having gotten up at the same time and moved to their side. Both were already laid on their backs, but both had very large holes in their heads.

"They're dead, Dr. Ziegler," Amélie corrected. It had been a calculated, cold decision on her part, but it was one she knew most any in her position, with her training would have made.

"They WON'T be if we hurry!" She said, and Amélie raised an eyebrow.

"What are you playing at?"

"No time, I need you to get my bag." And so she did.


End file.
